


When Is He Not Stressed?

by CoffeeAndDreams



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: 007 Fest 2020, Eve is in control, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Team Civilian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndDreams/pseuds/CoffeeAndDreams
Summary: 007 is in a meeting with M, but something is wrong. When M is stricken with a severe migraine Bond does his best to help, but it's Eve who runs the show.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	When Is He Not Stressed?

**Author's Note:**

> Part of 007 Fest 2020. I'm on Team Civilian because I don't like competition.

He was a damned fool for not figuring it out sooner. After all, he’d sensed something was slightly off the moment he entered M’s office—the lighting a little lower, the temperature a little cooler. But it was M himself that had peaked Bond’s interest. The man always looked stressed (how could he not given the enormous weight on his shoulders), but today he looked just this side of frazzled. His complexion was dull and the stress lines at the corner of his mouth and across his forehead were particularly deep. There were bags under his eyes and a fatigue in his movements that was unusual. One or two of these traits wouldn’t be cause for concern, but the entire package had Bond frowning slightly. He’d begrudgingly come to respect, and then even like the man over the last few years. And now he felt a rare pang of concern in his chest.

“Ah. 007. Have a seat,” M said, shuffling through some papers on his desk. He found the file he wanted and opened it, sat forward in his chair, and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Well done in Oslo. Both governments quite pleased with the outcome,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Bond said. He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down in one of the plush leather chairs across from M’s desk, crossing one leg over the other.

“We think the intelligence gathered from your contact there is…” M paused for a moment and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. “Um. The intelligence seems quite credible and the local authorities will be working with Norwegian national security to continue to follow up on the leads you’ve generated.”

Bond was torn between wanting to ask M if he was alright or playing along with his boss’ pretense that he was. As a man who fiercely valued his own privacy, and hated having attention drawn to his own discomforts, 007 opted for latter choice…for now.

“Let them know that things could get dicey with that gang from the north side of the city. Had a bit of trouble with them myself,” Bond said. It seemed to jog something in M’s memory.

“Yes. How is your leg, by they way?”

“Fine, sir. More a glancing blow than anything. Stitches come out next week.”

M hummed like he was humoring Bond’s assessment of a knife gash the required fifteen stitches as “a glancing blow.”

“I’ll be sure to…to pass on…your concern.” M winced and ground his fingertips into the part of his forehead above his right eyebrow. Bond felt his heartrate spike. M had to be in real pain to let his cool demeanor slip like this.

“M?”

He tried to wave off Bond’s concern, but the tight noise of pain that escaped had the agent on his feet and rounding the desk in a flash.

“Mallory, what’s wrong?” Bond asked, leaning down and trying to assess what was happening. A list of dire scenarios ran through his head: stroke, heart attack, poisoning. M seemed unable to answer and Bond reached across the desk for the phone so he could call for help. Just as he was about to press the emergency call button, M’s shaky hand batted the receiver away from Bond.

“Migraine,” M hissed through clenched teeth.

Bond paused for a moment, shoving his panic back into the corner of his mind specially reserved for such feelings, and reviewed the evidence that had been staring him in the face for the last twenty minutes. A migraine made sense, though he had no idea it was something that M struggled with. However, armed with this new information, Bond finally felt he could be of some use. He kept his voice low and placed a hand on the back of M’s chair.

“Can you make it to the sofa?” he asked. On the far side of M’s office was a rich, overstuffed leather sofa. M grunted and Bond wasn’t actually sure if it was a yes or no. M gestured towards the tall windows to his left.

“Switch behind the curtain,” he whispered.

Bond stood and went to examine the wall behind the thick drapes. Just as M had said, there was a switch concealed about at the height of Bond’s head. He pressed it and thick blinds descended from behind the valances of all the windows; in seconds the room was plunged into near total darkness. Bond felt this was likely Q Branch’s trickery.

When he returned to Mallory’s side, the reduction in the light seemed to help. The man was still obviously in pain, but it didn’t seem to be as intense as before. He seemed to be considering if he could stand up and make it across the length of his office. James crouched down and caught M’s eye (difficult to do as dark as it was).

“I’ll help,” Bond said, nodding towards the sofa. If M’s sensitivity to sound was as bad as his sensitivity to light, Bond wanted to speak as little as possible. The older man braced himself and pressed his hands against the top of his desk, pushing himself into a standing position. James stood next to him and waited as M found his balance, his eyes closed, taking a few deliberate deep breaths before blindly extending his left arm for Bond to take. Slowly, carefully Bond walked them across the thick carpet of the office, pausing and bracing himself to ease M to the floor if he passed out before he made it. Although it seemed to take ages, he was finally able to ease M down onto the sofa. The man was nearly out of breath and sweat was beading on his forehead. Bond quickly went back to the desk and grabbed the rubbish bin, putting it next to the sofa. “In case you feel ill,” he said quietly.

M nodded and Bond stood back, trying to figure out what to do next now that they’d managed the monumental task of making it to the sofa. He should help M take his jacket and coat off before he laid down, but that seemed a little familiar and he felt awkward about suggesting it. Perhaps M had medicine he should take? Would water or tea help—something caffeinated? He was so lost in his own thoughts, he almost missed M’s quiet voice.

“Get Eve, please,” he whispered.

Moneypenny. Of course! Why didn’t he think of that? 007 quickly crossed over to the office door and opened it a crack to call over to M’s assistant. The look on the double O’s face was enough to get her up and moving. The moment Eve entered the dark office she sighed.

“I should have known,” she said to Bond, keeping her voice quiet enough not to disturb M. “He didn’t seem right when he came in this morning. Stubborn fool.” She crooked a finger towards Bond, and he followed her over to the cabinets on the opposite side of the room. She unlocked one and took out a pillow and a blanket, handing them to Bond. “Get his jacket and shoes off. I’ve got to give him an injection before he can try to sleep it off.”

So, this was a thing that happened often enough they had a protocol: the blinds, the blanket, and Moneypenny being versed in M’s medication. He would have never suspected; M hid it well. Not that he needed to of course—anyone would understand, but Bond understood. They were spies after all. Weakness of any sort wasn’t well-tolerated. The pain must be intense though—he’d seen Mallory take a bullet to the arm and barely flinch.

M was leaning back against the cushions but was still aware enough of his surroundings to stir when Bond sat down next to him.

“Jacket,” he said quietly, sliding a hand over M’s shoulder and reaching around help ease him forward so he could help him out of it. Bond draped the navy suit coat over the arm of the sofa and then knelt on the carpet to undo the laces of M’s shoes. He was on the second shoe when he glanced up to see M’s bloodshot eyes opened and trained on his face. Bond raised an eyebrow in question.

“So sorry, 007,” M mumbled, clearly embarrassed.

Bond winked and patted his ankle, that miniscule half-smile that reassured M that all was well on his lips. He stood and put M’s shoes neatly near the foot of the sofa and then draped his jacket over the back of his desk chair so it wouldn’t be wrinkled.

He returned and watched Moneypenny roll up M’s left shirt sleeve and swab the bend of his arm with a prepackaged wipe with rubbing alcohol.

“James?” She called him over and handed him a pen light. “Hold that while I find a vein, please,” she said. Eve filled a syringe with medication from a glass vial and studied the lines under M’s pale skin until she found a spot she liked. M remained motionless as she administered his medication and put a bandage over the mark. The she stripped off her gloves and undid the cuffs of his other sleeve and loosened the knot of his tie before slipping it over his head. “Sleep, sir,” she whispered and that was his cue to gingerly stretch out on the sofa. She spread the blanket over him and smiled when he whispered something Bond couldn’t hear. Eve laid a hand on M’s shoulder for a moment, and then nodded for Bond to follow her out into her office. The whole ordeal had left Bond uneasy—it was bizarre to see M taken ill so suddenly…or at all really. Eve sat back down at her desk and immediately began sending emails to reschedule M’s remaining appointments for the rest of the day. She glanced up at the brooding agent pacing in front of her. “It doesn’t happen often,” she said.

“Define often,” Bond said.

“More than once a month, less than every week,” she said. “Stress makes it worse.”

“Moneypenny, when is he not stressed?” he asked, slightly exasperated at how calm she was about this whole thing. She smiled.

“You caught him in a particularly bad one today. Usually he doesn’t need the intravenous meds—can manage with pills and a darkened office. I’ll have his head for waiting so long before getting help, when it’s better of course,” she said. “It doesn’t get that severe without warning signs. I thought he looked off this morning when he came in, but he said he was just tired. We’ll have a discussion about lying later, though he’ll be so embarrassed about you seeing him like that it may be punishment enough to teach him lesson.”

“Are you the only one who—”

“Tanner knows how to give him the injection if I’m not here and can quickly pull him from a meeting if needed. Q knows, but only because he rigged up the blackout curtains for him a couple years ago.”

Bond hummed in approval. Seemed they had it under control. He gave another quick glance at the door and Eve smiled.

“He’ll be fine I promise. That shot will knock him out for at least four hours. He’ll be groggy and in a mood when he wakes up, but the pain will be manageable. By noon tomorrow, you’ll never be able to tell anything was wrong.”

More settled that M would be fine, and Eve had things well in hand, Bond fasted the second button of his jacket and made for the exit.

“Oh, and 007? This goes without saying but speak a word of this to anyone and I’ll shoot you again.”

“Bye, Moneypenny.”


End file.
